


The Painter

by United



Series: Painter Verse [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier, Emotional Baggage, Famous Jaskier, Geralt Apologizes, Geralt in Denial, Guilt, Himbo Geralt, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote a fucking ballad for this, Love Confessions, M/M, Not for long tho, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Slow Burn, They only have one braincell and Jaskier took it in the divorce, Vesemir is So Done, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22306645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/United/pseuds/United
Summary: The crowd parts for Jaskier. He’s positively beaming, cradling his lute, the damn lute that has a scratch along the body from when Jaskier used it to bash a drowner in the face, when Geralt wasn’t close and fast and careful enough that one time.Everything else about him is new and lavish and the filigree necklace resting on his collarbones catches the light.He looks so at home at the center of attention, with the people chanting for him like a victorious general returning from battle. Even the royal couple is applauding much louder than etikett demands, the princesses clapping enthusiastically.And this, this is how it should have been all along, this is what Jaskier deserves. Pride and shame wash over Geralt, so proud of the artistic genius finally fucking appreciated as it should be. And ashamed because he has no right to that pride anymore./"Geralt is a fucking himbo who doesn’t realize he’s in love with Jaskier but when he does realize it he scales a goddamn wall of a castle.. like get u a man like geralt"- Strixalucozosterons
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Painter Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605595
Comments: 142
Kudos: 1894





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I gave myself tendonitis writing this, leave an F in the chat for my hands.

It’s almost six weeks to the day after the mountain when he first hears the song. It’s at the arse end of Keadwen, a tiny settlement, nobody ever bothered naming it, it has an inn though.

Geralt feels like death warmed over, probably looks worse and definitely smells accordingly. It’s surprising that the innkeeper has taken pity on him, rather than offense. She’s let him wash off the worst of the sweat, dirt, and blood at the well in the backyard.

It was early in the morning when he arrived and early still when he falls onto a bench in the inn’s almost cozy main room. 

His last clients had greeted him with pitchforks when he had returned to collect his pay for the specter he had laid to rest, and he had ridden, then, after Roach had tired, walked for four days to reach the next village.

The innkeeper is singing to herself behind the bar, fixing what he hopes is an early lunch for him. He’s too busy trying not to fall asleep to really pay attention to the words, but they drifted over nonetheless. The tune is soft, melancholic.

“He’s painted her picture a hundred of times

He’ll paint her a thousand times more

He’ll never let go of those long since cut ties

To the one, he will always adore”

The innkeeper has a clear, pleasing voice, almost like Jaskier, Geralt’s exhausted brain supplies helpfully. A second or two later he catches up with his own thoughts and groanes, letting his head sink to the table in front of him. 

Lovely. He had successfully been avoiding any reminder of that particular bastard’s existence. He’d even had a nice two-week streak going until now. 

He also avoids thinking about why he was avoiding thinking about Jaskier. 

Not like he feels the need to suppress any notion Yennefer for example. He keeps circling back to the shit show that had been their fight on the mountain. Replaying everything in his head, imagining saying something slightly different or saying nothing at all, simply wrapping her up in his arms and kissing away any dangerous questions about wishes. He was doing a lot of that lately. 

Not to mention mentally kicking himself for being a selfish, stupid, heartless, had he mentioned selfish?, emotionally crippled fucking arse of a witcher. The frequency of that had certainly increased since Yen stormed off in a righteous fury, but he had been pretty good at that, long before he even met her.

“He’s painted her picture a thousand of times

He’ll paint her ten thousand times more

He’ll never let go of those long since cut ties

To the one, he will always adore”

The singing grows closer and the innkeeper sets a bowl of stew down in front of him. Potato, leeks and rabbit, Gods, that smells heavenly. 

“You can stay in the barn for a night or three. I won’t even cost you. Just pay for the food for you and your mare. And my sister in law, she lives an hour down south, has told me about some beast that keeps eating her goats. I’m sure she would appreciate your help. She can pay, too.” 

Geralt blinks up at her, startled. This isn’t what he expected, not at all.

The innkeeper snorts at his expression. 

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Master Wolf. I don’t have any spare coin for tossing, but your little bard is very convincing.”, she says before sauntering back towards the kitchen.

Geralt feels like banging his head on the table a couple of times. Or drowning himself in the well out back. He isn’t sure which yet. And he mulishly refuses to examine why exactly he suddenly feels the need to cuddle a necrophage. 

Instead, he picks up the spoon and starts eating. No point in wasting his first decent meal in a week, because the bard somehow follows him without actually being there himself.

(He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.)

He wants to go find that barn she talked about so badly, find a cozy nook and just sleep for a day and a night and then maybe some more still, but at the same time, he itches for his sword. It’s simple, familiar, soothing, his hand around the hilt of silver or steel. Nothing better to chase away muddled thoughts of the scent of lilac and the sound of someone idly picking at the strings of a lute. 

He finishes his meal, leaves a coin on the table next to the empty bowl and starts his walk towards the farm of the innkeep’s sister. 


	2. Chapter 2

He’s been having what one could tentatively call a streak of good luck, ever since the vukodlak that had taken to feasting on the goats of that woman in Keadwen. 

People sometimes recognize him now, when he arrives at a new village. Not just as a witcher but as the witcher from the songs.  Jaskier’s career has certainly taken off, now that he stopped following Geralt around.

As much as Geralt would like to hate everything about this, he can’t bring himself to, when it’s secured him a steady stream of coin. Villagers approach him openly nowadays. He’s suddenly become someone they trust to help them, the one best suited to slay a monster they can’t quite describe or even name. Not someone they begrudgingly hire when they have no other option, half expecting him to rob them or worse.

They call him “Master Witcher”, of all things. 

Jaskier’s career has certainly taken off, now that he stopped following Geralt around. 

He’s staying in a village just bordering on the precipice of becoming a town. The inn is surprisingly clean, the owner handed him a key and a tankard of ale before he’d even sat down at the bar properly. Again someone who recognized him and didn’t run for the hills. 

This is getting eery. 

He pockets the key anyway and drinks deeply.

The tavern is just beginning to get crowded, the sun is sinking and people are returning from the fields. It’s harvest season by now and the farmers here had a fruitful year. The village is bustling with merry people. Geralt is feeling decidedly out of place. 

A blond girl, some fourteen, fifteen summers maybe, dressed in reds and blues that should clash, but somehow bring out the honey-gold of her hair.

A man has grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her up a table. Geralt’s hand twitches around his ale, ready to put his boot up the bastard’s arse, but the girl laughs delighted and the man hands her a lute. No tavern brawl tonight, it seems. Not that Geralt is complaining.

She starts playing and the room is clapping and stomping their feet along in no time. She’s uncommonly good. Her voice is strong for her age, carrying well over the noise and her play is sure, if not yet truly masterful.

Jaskier certainly is better.

God damn it all. 

Geralt empties his ale in one long draw.

Why in all the kingdoms can’t he just forget about the idiot? It’s been months!

The girl finishes her song, catches a couple of coins thrown her way and someone in the back of the room cries: 

“Play the Painter!” 

“Yes, the Painter!” the barmaid shouts and puts down another ale in front of Geralt. 

The young bard complies and launches into a slightly slower song, playing a melody Geralt dimly recognizes. It’s wistful, but not completely void of light-heartedness.

“A painter once met a magnificent queen

Streaked with the blood of her enemies

Past him, she rode victoriously

The most beautiful sight he had ever seen

Past she rode and took with her his heart

Oh with her she took his heart

He painted her picture, her eyes sparkling wild

Her aura of glory, her halo of pain

Presented to her his devotion made plain

Then burst with hope as she gave him a smile

And he dreamed that she’d give him her heart

Oh but she never gave him her heart”

It’s not half bad, Geralt thinks, finding himself intrigued by the story. Jaskier writes like this often, really telling a story with song. The girl’s sweet voice is suddenly sounding flat to his ears. 

“After a year she cast him aside

She severed their ties, she spit on his pride

The painter knows he’s truly at fault

He bared a wound for her to pour salt

He forgot that the lows always follow the highs

Oh how the lows always follow the highs”

Well, isn’t that depressing. Why someone would ask for this song, Geralt doesn’t understand. Something niggles in the back of his mind, but he ignores it resolutely. 

He feels like shit suddenly. Why write something like this? Sad, mopey warbling, a pain to listen to. Horseshit fucking terrible song. 

Across the counter, the barmaid is resting her head in her hand, sniffing, her eyes unusually bright. She notices him looking and smiles self-consciously. 

“My betrothed, well he isn’t my betrothed no more,” she tells him quietly. 

Geralt hums, hoping it sounds adequately sympathetic.

“He’s painted her picture a hundred of times

He’ll paint her a hundred times more

He’ll never let go of those long since cut ties

To the one, he will always adore

He’s painted her picture a thousand of times

He’ll paint her ten thousand times more

He’ll never let go of those long since cut ties

To the one, he will always adore”

People sing along to the chorus and the bard repeats it twice over until she finally fucking starts playing something upbeat and mindless.

Geralt tries to remember the last time he’d gotten truly, properly wasted and finds it’s been far too long. Checking the bag of coin in his pocket, he decides having money to spare doesn’t suit him anyway. He downs his ale.

“Schnaps,” he tells the barmaid who’s successfully composed herself by now.

She complies and, with a knowing look, puts a bottle and a glass on the bartop before him.

Some hours later, he doesn’t know how many and he frankly stopped giving a fuck a while ago, he makes his way up the stairs to his room slowly, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. 

He’s hit just the right amount of inebriation. Just this side of walking on his own. 

He fumbles with the key to the room for a while before he figures out which end is supposed to go into the lock, but then he’s inside, pulling off his clothes and falling into bed, facing the ceiling.

He’s just drifting off when a warm weight settles over his hips. He hums, pleased, and places his hands on lightly muscled thighs, runs his hands through the fine hair there. 

Geralt opens his eyes, feeling cloudy, beside himself. 

Jaskier’s smiling down at him, half-lidded and content. Geralt drinks him in, his bangs falling into his eyes, the thick, dark hair covering his chest, his belly twitching when Geralt runs a hand over it.

He leans down to lick the skin just under his jaw and Geralt breathes him in too, savoring musk and underlying sweetness, that he always has clinging to him when he’s with Geralt. 

He’s never quite allowed himself to really think about that sweetness, but he does now. Jaskier smells trusting, open in a way that makes the blood rush in his ears.

Jaskier's hand finds his throat, squeezing gently but pointedly. Geralt groans.

He slides a hand into soft, chestnut hair, grips tightly, drawing a low moan out of Jaskier. 

He pulls him closer still by the hold he has on his hair, kissing him lazily, running his tongue over Jaskier’s teeth. The taste of his saliva is something else, he can taste the endorphins that make Jaskier stain his thigh with his arousal.

“Geralt… hmm. Geralt, I want you-” His breath hitches, as Geralt starts sucking a bruise into the line of his throat. “Want your mouth on me.”

Geralt agrees. Gods, does he ever agree. Jaskier simply has the best ideas.

He reaches down to grip Jaskier firm arse-

In the hallway outside of his room, some drunkard falls to the floor, the sudden noise has Geralt sitting up in bed immediately. 

Alone. 

He’s breathing heavily, he’s hard enough to pound in nails and he’s never been both so frustrated and mortified in his entire fucking life.

He takes himself in hand anyway, finishing himself fast and too rough, punishment for coming up with that kind of a dream, starring that particular brunet of all the people he could have conjured up. Of all the people he ever wanted to get his prick inside, of course, it has to be the most obnoxious, infuriating little shit he has ever met. 

No more sleep for him, not tonight, not after this.

He heads out early, after meditating a couple of hours. Trying to meditate that is. Blurry images, idle notions of someone warm and ever-smiling settled in his lap interrupt time and time again.

This… this is really getting out of hand. 


	3. Chapter 3

He spends the morning checking the noticeboard and talking to people, looking for a contract, a hunt,  _ anything _ to take his mind off of the dream and his general hangover misery.

A wraith, who once was the alderman's son and died at the hand of a bandit, has been haunting a crossroad near town at night, but Geralt can't do anything about that until nightfall. He could always dig up the body, decapitate and set it on fire and the problem would be solved, but the grief in the father's eyes keeps him from even suggesting such. 

He makes his way back towards the inn, intent on eating and another attempt at meditation. 

The village center has filled up with makeshift stalls and people selling their wares. He refills his food supplies, picks up some sugar cubes for Roach (He's spoiling the beast, but he can't help himself.) and is browsing a merchant’s selection of whetstones. Across the square, he notices a familiar flash of red, blue and yellow. He silently asks for mercy, but of course, the bard starts playing the damn painter song.

Abandoning the whetstones, he reaches her before she finishes the second verse.

"A crown if, you sing anything but this." He says, holding up a coin. 

She startles, looks him over, then a Cheshire grin spreads over her face.

"When a humble bard-"

"Not the painter and not that either, if you please." he grinds out.

She laughs and takes the coin.

"The fairer sex, they often-"

"Melitele have mercy! Not that one either!"

"Well, you're out of luck then, Wolf." She says, tossing the coin back at him. "Nothing more popular right now than Master Jaskier's songs. I thought you two were friends anyway?"

Everything inside Geralt freezes.

"Did- Did he write the Painter?"

"Of course he did. His greatest work if you ask me!"

With horror, he watches as understanding dawns on her face.

"How come you didn't- Lords above!  _ Is the Painter about you?" _

He's already turned on his heel, briskly walking back to the inn, avoiding the looks of the villager who heard her outburst.

He spends the rest of the day locked in the room he rented, trying and failing to think of anything but that song. The verses keep running through his head, 'cast him aside, spit on his pride', Gods, he did, didn't he?

Frantic thoughts of finding Jaskier, of wrapping him up in his arms return again and again, but he'd probably only get his nose bloodied. He can't very well soothe Jaskier's pain when he's the very bastard who caused it. 

Why did he fucking say all of that shit anyway? He could have just put Roach in a gallop if he needed to be rid of him so badly. Why did he-

Geralt leaves the rent and the key for his room on the pillow and sets out as soon as the last voice falls silent downstairs, keeping away from their eyes. He slays the wraith, relishing in the reprieve of thought and self-loathing the rush of the fight grants him, but it's over too soon.

He contemplates meditating until sunrise and collecting his reward from the alderman, but he can't imagine setting a foot into that village again.

He mounts Roach and rides aimlessly, trying to leave behind guilt and song both.

The song doesn’t leave him the fuck alone though. It’s everywhere, suddenly. Perhaps it already was and he didn't notice, but now his ear is familiar with it, ever in anticipation of the tune. 

Farmers are singing it when he rides by, beggars humming it on the streets of Novigrad, every bard in every inn plays it twice at least every night _. _ He wants to scream. 

Finally, he rouses from a night spent meditating under a tree somewhere near Vizima covered in the lightest layer of snow. He heaves a sigh of bone-deep relief.

It’s time to head to Kaer Morhen. He’s never longed for a quiet winter so whole-heartedly.

Geralt arrives at the fortress just after dusk barely a week later.

Having taken care of Roach, he walks the path up to the main entrance slowly, feeling weary and every single one of his years. It’s good to be home, yet… 

Warm, orange light and friendly voices welcome him to the halls of Kaer Morhen.

Eskel and Lambert have the fireplace going merrily and look as cozy and content as witchers ever look.

“Oi! If it isn’t the White fucking Wolf! Gracing us with his presence!” Lambert hollers from his seat by the fire, waving a cup wildly, spilling wine. He looks pleasantly drunk already.

Eskel gets up and wordlessly draws Geralt into a short, but tight embrace, clapping him on the back.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher! Oh, valley of plenty, oh, valley of plenty!”, Lambert sings quite out of tune, before bursting into laughter.

“Fuck you, too!” Geralt greets, trying his best to sound good-naturedly and failing miserably.

"Oh, is it a sore topic, Geralt-dearest?" Lambert says, fluttering his eyelashes. "Did you have a lover's spat, you and that little bard?"

Geralt doesn't deign that with a response. He gets himself a cup instead and fills it from the bottle sitting next to Lambert, settling in next to them. 

"Hey! Can't you at least ask, before you steal my wine? I know for a fact you weren't raised in a barn!"

"If my exploits are to provide you with entertainment this fine night, you can share your wine for payment. How was your summer? Any noteworthy hunts?"

Eskel, bless him thrice, gets the hint.

"Nesting cockatrice in Redania, almost took my arm off, but-"

Lambert however does not. 

"Don't let him change the topic now, this is just getting interesting! Do tell us of your friend. Word of mouth is you've been travelling with him for years now. Why hide him from us? _._ ” Geralt's hold on his drink tightens, his knuckles whitening. “I'm surprised you didn't bring him for the winter. Heard he's singing at the court in Kovir now, Queen Zuleyka's new _favorite-_ "

Eskel kicks him in the shin.

"Have you had too much to drink already or are you  _ wishing _ to have your arse kicked? Shut your mouth about this, will you?"

Fierce affection for Eskel adds to the swirling mix of shame, anger, and guilt in Geralt’s chest. He’s missed him.

Lambert looks ready to start a fight he isn't going to win, but then a malicious little smile appears on his face. Geralt does not like where this is going.

He gets up and mockingly bows to them.

"As you wish, your Highnesses. How about some music to lift the spirit?"

Eskel opens his mouth, but Geralt holds up a hand, silently asking him to leave it be.

Lambert gets like this sometimes, sticking his fingers into wounds like it's a sport and he's the continent champion. It's best to simply endure and not give him the satisfaction of a reaction until he has it out of his system. Lambert pulls a scuffed fiddle out of his pack, fidgets with the strings a little and starts playing the melody to the Painter, like the arsehole he is.

Geralt, jaw clenched tightly, looks around the hall, trying to distract himself and avoid Eskel's look of pity.

He notices a shadow in the door. Vesemir, arms crossed, silently watching them for Gods know how long already.

Their eyes meet and Geralt knows he's in for it now.

"Enough!" Vesemir bellows and Lambert drops his fiddle.

Vesemir stalks over to them and grabs Geralt by the shell of his ear like he hasn't done in over thirty years. 

Fuck.

Vesemir grabs and then Vesemir pulls, dragging him out of his seat and all the way into his study on the second floor. Not loosening his iron grip even a little bit the entire walk.

Geralt misses the times when the years had dulled the memory of how much this fucking hurts, like five minutes ago.

Vesemir finally lets go to throw the door close behind them. He lights the fireplace with a quick Igni while Geralt rubs feeling back into his ear.

Vesemir has that certain look in his eyes, that had him and Eskel run for cover when they still were a quarter the size they are now.

"What. Did. You. Do." 

"I don't know what you're talking about?" Geralt tries in futility.

"Cut the crap, will you. See, I'm minding my own damn business, just finished a hunt, trying to drink my ale in peace. A bard shows up, sings about a painter and gets drunk as a sailor after. Then who sits down across from me, barely coherent, and asks if I happen to know if your sorry arse is still alive? The very same bard. Absolutely  _ reeking  _ of heartbreak. So what in all the cruelty of the world  _ did you do? _ "

And Geralt tells him. Of meeting Jaskier, how he refused to leave him alone, singing about him. How he  _ let him.  _ How they kept finding each other after three winters spend apart now.  Then, shamefully, reluctantly, of the mountain too. How could he not? It's Vesemir. He's always told him everything. He knows off  _ Renfri _ , Melitele damn it all.

They've moved over to the fire by the time he's finished, he's occupying the ratty old settee next to it, Vesemir in a slightly less shabby armchair across from him.

Vesemir reaches out and cuffs him over the head. Hard.

Geralt doesn't flinch or lean away. He deserved that.

Vesemir settles back into the cushion looking at him, rubbing at his temples. Geralt can't bring himself to meet his eyes.

"How stupid you are." He tells him, but there's no heat behind it.

"A bard? Does he even carry a knife? I could have thrown him to the ground if I sneezed at him. And you let him come with you? There's kinder ways to kill a man."

"He was… persistent."

Vesemir sighs.

"That he is, I suppose. Your gross negligence aside, why those words then? The deed's already done. The fool loved you, t'was clear as day. You're not cruel usually. Why now?"

Geralt only hangs his head. He doesn't have an answer to that.

Vesemir sighs again, with feeling.

"At least you're miserable too. Only fair. Daft whoreson, you are."

He gets up and rummages around in the drawers of his desk. Returns with a dusty bottle and two glasses.

A finger of liquor is pressed into his hands and Geralt drinks greedily.

It burns like hell, running down his throat, leaving behind a trail of fire and pain. He welcomes it, then he finds it loosens his tongue.

“I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t. The entire continent is singing about how I went and broke Jaskier’s heart and I’ve no fucking idea what to do.”

“You apologize, you ridiculous fool,” Vesemir says idly, swirling his glass. 

Geralt feels anger bubbling, suddenly. At what, he doesn't know.

“I don’t know _ how _ ! Not for something like this.”

“You have over seventy summers on your back and you haven’t figured out how to grovel yet? Beg! Get on your knees, hang your head in shame! Try kissing his feet, fuck do I know!" Vesemir snaps at him and refills Geralt's glass.

He drinks again and it somehow burns worse than before.

Getting on his knees, begging, Geralt isn't above that, not anymore. Yet he feels it wouldn't be quite enough.

“And what do I say, when I’ve finished kissing his feet?” He asks softly.

Vesemir groans in frustration.

“You useless- You- Listen, why shouldn’t you have said what you said?”

“‘was a right bastard thing to say.”

“And why’d you say it?” Vesemir demands and Geralt has no answer, again.

“I - I don’t fucking know.”

“Well, you got the whole ride to Kovir to think about that. The pass hasn’t snowed over yet. Go get your arse on your mare and don’t you dare return without the bard or I'll have your sorry hide!”

And Geralt goes and gets his arse on his mare.


	4. Chapter 4

He starts smelling seawater a day before he arrives in Lan Exeter. It’s salt, sure, but it’s also so much more. The smell of the sea has always had a depth that he could lose himself in, should he allow it. Lan Exeter is built out into the sea as if the people couldn’t get enough of the waters either. 

The winter palace of Kovir, Ensenada, curls itself into the side of the cliff that overlooks the city. They say no army in the world could seize it, chiseled into the stones as it is. Geralt is inclined to agree. A determined witcher, however?

He could always go knocking on the front gate. Ask to see the famous minstrel. They would recognize him, maybe even usher him in. Maybe, maybe Jaskier would come down to the gate to speak to him, hear him out. 

Yet again maybe a guard would tell him, that the bard does not wish his company. 

Probably. 

Most likely. 

Why would he want to see him at all? He’s doing wonderful without him. He probably has, well, not exactly forgotten about Geralt, but time must have dulled any feeling. Writing that song must have helped too.

But Geralt needs to apologize. He will not be turned away.

The cliff is steep and smooth, but not steep or smooth enough to keep him from scaling it. 

He has driven an iron hook into the stone and tied the rickety old boat he’s rented to it securely. 

His fingertips burn from clinging to the smallest crevices in the wall, but he’s had worse, really. It’s only some thirty feet anyway. The first window he encounters blessedly is only covered by a thick wad of fabric to stave off the winter chill. 

He finds himself in a storeroom filled to the brim with food. A kitchen boy is hurriedly gathering ingredients and doesn’t notice him. They must be having a rather busy night, hosting the birthday celebration of one of the princesses whose name he didn’t bother to remember. Jaskier will be playing, of course. 

Geralt makes his way out and into the kitchens. Between the shouting and people rushing about nobody takes much notice of him. It probably helps that he left his swords in the inn where he has boarded Roach too and is wearing his most formal clothes. 

It’s remarkable how little people watch their surroundings. 

Jaskier will be in the ballroom tonight. Geralt will keep an eye on him and follow him after he’s finished, much easier than searching for him all over the palace.

(He may also just want to watch him perform, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Geralt follows the servants carrying food and drink and throws preemptive Axiis at any guard he passes. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, just another guest.’

Not much longer. Jaskier could be around any corner now. Not that Geralt wants him to notice him until he can catch him alone. He simply can’t guess how Jaskier might react to him and he would prefer not spending the night behind bars in the bowels of the palace. 

This is a terrible idea.

But he has to see it through now.

The banquet hall is filled to bursting with people, eating, singing, laughing. 

It’s not Jaskier’s voice that’s besting a dancing tune.

Geralt grabs a goblet of wine off a server’s tray, find a secluded corner and settles in to wait. 

A guard passes him and Geralt nods at him like he belongs. The guard nods back. 

He gathers from the conversations of the nobles that Jaskier has graduated from providing entertainment during the feast to giving his performance after, so they may truly appreciate his mastery. 

Good. He will not disappoint the titled idiots gathered here, Geralt knows.

He sips his wine and tastes not much at all. Not much longer, now.

The meats and sides are replaced with sweet cakes and pudding and then the tables are cleared altogether. 

The servants start extinguishing some of the candles and fires, slowly bathing the hall in flickering shadows.

What will he look like? Dressed up in his very best finery of course, but will he look happy? Will Geralt smell heartbreak still, like Vesemir said he did? Any moment now. And he’ll know. 

He wants to  _ flee. _ Why did he come here? What devil possessed him to come looking for Jaskier after everything? He can’t bear the thought of looking him in the eye, how will he ever find it in him to speak to him?

But he needs to see him now. The whole fucking ride here, through snow and sleet, he kept thinking of how he looked on the mountain. God, what would he give for a new memory of Jaskier. Something where he doesn’t look quite so gutted and betrayed.

Any fucking moment now. 

Everyone falls silent as King Esterad rises from his seat at the royal table, raises his arms like a preacher.

“Friends! I won’t keep you waiting any longer. I know who you truly came for.” The guests chuckle. “I present to you the Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, Jaskier!”

And Jaskier strides through the double doors at the back of the hall and the people start to cheer feverishly. There he is. Everything that Geralt’s been waiting for.

He’s draped in silver and glossy cobalt blue silk. His hair is longer, curling slightly at the ends. Geralt wants to  _ touch,  _ wants to press his face into soft chestnut hair and inhale until he’s surrounded with nothing but the smell of him, until everything else ceases to be _. _

The crowd parts for Jaskier. He’s positively beaming, cradling his lute, the damn lute that has a scratch along the body from when Jaskier used it to bash a drowner in the face, when Geralt wasn’t close and fast and careful enough that one time. 

Everything else about him is new and lavish and the filigree necklace resting on his collarbones catches the light.

He looks so at home at the center of attention, with the people chanting for him like a victorious general returning from battle. Even the royal couple is applauding much louder than etikett allows, the princesses clapping enthusiastically. 

And this, this is how it should have been all along, this is what Jaskier  _ deserves. _ Pride and shame wash over Geralt, so proud of the artistic genius finally fucking appreciated as it should be. And ashamed because he has no right to that pride anymore. 

Not that he ever had, really. Mocking, ignoring, telling Jaskier to shut up, insulting his most precious and powerful instrument, his voice. Finely honed and capable of softness, of power, of sweetness, of mourning. He’s been sung awake countless times, while they were traveling together and never did he recognize it for the gift it was. 

Jaskier bows low before the Majesties and again a banquet hall bursting with people falls silent. Geralt’s breath catches.

And Jaskier starts to sing. 

Geralt sinks down to sit with his back against the wall, closes his eyes and simply listens.

Over the next hour, the songs start to blur together. Songs he knows, songs he’s heard in their early stages of creation and songs that are completely new. Geralt basks in every single one, lets himself be enveloped in the music.

At last Jaskier launches into Toss a Coin with as much fervor as ever and the entire hall joins him in the final chorus. Something constricts in Geralt’s chest in a way he has grown quite accustomed to, lately.

The guests are still laughing and chattering when, softly, Jaskier starts playing the melody to The Painter. Of course. He’d explained it to Geralt once. Save the best for last and your audience always leaves happy. 

Better yet, if they leave crying too. 

Jaskier starts barely above a whisper, growing louder ever so slowly.

Suddenly Geralt understands why this song has taken the continent by storm. Anyone who has listened to Jaskier sing it must have understood that this wasn’t just some sad story he came up with chewing on the end of his quill one ordinary afternoon. 

Everyone can hear the painter’s longing because it’s real. 

It looks like time dulled nothing for Jaskier either.

Geralt lets the verses wash over him, along with the certainty that he’s the one who gave Jaskier’s voice a depth of sorrow it didn’t have before.

He needs to see him, suddenly. He rises on weak legs and lets himself be drawn closer, out from behind the pillar he’s been hiding behind. 

“He’s painted her picture a hundred of times”

He’s beautiful. 

“He’ll paint her a hundred times more”

Swaying with it.

“He’ll never let go of those long since cut ties”

Lost in his own music.

“To the one, he will always adore.”

Then he glances over at Geralt. Sees him, truly.

Jaskier’s hand spasms violently across his lute and with a disconcerting noise, three of the strings rip.

Confused muttering spreads through the hall, while Jaskier keeps looking directly at Geralt, with shock and recognition and then with something Geralt can’t read. He can’t move, can’t do anything, paralyzed by Jaskier’s gaze on him. The crowd grows increasingly agitated and, after what seems like an eternity, Jaskier lowers his eyes down to his lute. 

There are only four strings left. 

Jaskier hums something that vaguely sounds like The Painter, gently strumming the remaining strings once, twice. Then he somehow - Geralt has not a clue how that is even remotely possible - picks up exactly where he left. 

Sure, it sounds different, but the melody is clear as day. 

Geralt can’t breathe.

He watches as Jaskier smiles softly, closes his eyes and sings freely:

“I sang this song a thousand of times

I’ll sing it ten thousand times more

I’ll never let go of those long since cut ties

To the one, I will always adore”

Jaskier takes his battered lute through the last chords of the song deliberately slowly, the last notes echoing through the hall.

Then the people start to  _ roar _ . 

Jaskier bows first to the audience, decidedly not looking anywhere near Geralt, then to the monarchs, before stepping close to kiss Queen Zuleyka’s hand. Over the pandemonium, Geralt’s ears barely pick up on how Jaskier apologizes for the “unfortunate incident” and the King’s fast reassurance that his performance was all the more impressive for it. The Queen is openly crying, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. 

Jaskier bows to the crowd yet again (The furious applause impossibly grows louder still.) and vanishes through a side door near the royal table.


	5. Chapter 5

He finds Jaskier some twenty minutes later in a lavish guest room.

The servants Geralt passes are already chattering excitedly about Jaskier’s newest feat: Masterfully playing a lute with ripped strings and confirming rumors of great heartbreak inspiring his most famous song, at the same time. Geralt estimates a week, maybe ten days, until the news will have reached every capital of the continent.

The palace is bustling with noise and movement, but he recognizes Jaskier’s steps, his scent behind the massive ebony door immediately. 

For the twelfth time tonight, Geralt contemplates simply turning around and getting the hell out of Kovir. Six months away from each other and Jaskier is staying in royal guest quarters, instead of shitty, lice-infested inns or under no roof at all. People cheer for him ecstatically, instead of throwing vegetables. Was he holding him back?

Maybe he should fuck off for Jaskier’s own good. 

But he owes Jaskier something, even if it’s too little, too late. 

He can still leave after he’s apologized.

Jaskier briefly looks up from where he’s digging around in his travel pack.

“Still here, after all, I almost thought you’d just dropped in for the music,” he says airily and goes back to haphazardly pulling clothes and knickknacks out of his pack.

“I came to see you-”

“To tell me off? About the song? Well, I’m terribly sorry, if it’s offending you, but I’m not gonna stop playing my most popular piece. That’s not negotiable. Feel free to see yourself out.”

He upends his bag and a shower of dirt, pebbles, broken lute strings and crumpled parchment rains onto the floor. He drops the pack and starts throwing about the papers spread over the desk by one of the windows.

“How’d you get in here anyway? Certainly didn’t convince the guards to open the gates with your irresistible charms. Nevermind. Shoo, Witcher. Kindly find whatever hole you crawled in through and crawl right back out. Maybe send a letter of warning next time you decide to harass me. So I don’t embarrass myself in front of the _entire fucking court of Kovir_ just because I see your ugly mug in the crowd.” He stops taking the room apart for a moment and grabs his hair with both hands, breathing hard, gaze anywhere but on Geralt. He looks ready to shake apart at any moment.

“You didn’t embarrass yourself-”

Jaskier laughs, loud but entirely void of humor, and stalks over to the enormous canopy bed, looking through the items strewn over the side table.

“You’ve never seen an opera house from the inside, have you? I really have no need for your opinions on the arts of performance. Anything else? No? The door is right over there. You found it just fine on your way in, I trust you to find it again.”

He drops to the floor, looks under the bed and resurfaces triumphantly holding a case of lute strings. He grabs his lute leaning against the foot of the bed and starts restringing it with nimble fingers.

“I’m quite serious, Witcher, my night has been eventful enough. I wish to repair my lute and then I wish to sleep. Preferably without you staring at me all the while.” he says softly.

“Jaskier-”

“ _Don’t you fucking ‘Jaskier’ me! You have no right!_ ” Jaskier shouts.

And he’s finally looking at him, but Geralt only sees pain on his face and _Geralt did that_. He did. He can’t leave, he can’t. He needs to- To somehow _fix this._

And he’s getting nowhere.

He might as well start taking Vesemir’s advice now, he thinks and sinks to his knees right where he’s standing and lowers his head.

“What- Geralt, are you alright, what,” Jaskier says, “What are you doing down there.”

“Groveling.” Geralt resists the urge to look up. 

“Oh. Groveling. Of course.” Jaskier says flatly, “So you just, what, think you’re going to sit there and look pretty and I’m going to-” he chuckles. “I’m just going to fling my arms around your neck like a fainting maiden and you’re forgiven? I’ll go back to following you around like a love-sick puppy?”

Geralt shakes his head. After a beat, he adds, hopefully: “I was going to kiss your feet, too.”

Jaskier doesn’t laugh. He exhales harshly and runs a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. Yeah, no. Go fuck yourself, Geralt.” He walks over to the window and resumes restringing his lute. 

Geralt was right earlier. He should have just left, he should have never even come. He has fucked this up beyond belief, beyond reason or fixing, how could he ever fix something like this- He closes his eyes.

“What I said was cruel and wrong. If I could change it, I’d rather jump off that mountain than say it again.”

Jaskier sniffs and says nothing. 

“Nothing that happened when we were traveling together was your fault.” Geralt sighs. “Well, freeing the djinn maybe. But it’s not your fault that Yen, well, is Yen or what I used my wish for.” He rubs at his brow. “Or that I was stupid enough to ask for the law of surprise. That’s just me. That’s normal for me, I’ve been doing this for decades, jumping head-first into shit. But you were there and I blamed you, instead.”

Geralt looks over to Jaskier. His hands have stilled on the lute, he’s just cradling it gently.

“I don’t really know why I did. I don’t understand anything anymore. And you’re what’s confusing me the most, you know. You’re so…”

“Annoying?” Jaskier asks quietly.

“Sometimes. But that’s not what I mean.”

“And what do you mean?” Jaskier deadpans. 

Geralt searches for words. “When… When people talk to me in inns, it’s usual to call me an insult to the gods or to threaten to kill me, if I don’t leave. Sometimes they want me to help them or fuck them, but that’s about it.” He smiles. “But you want me to critique your singing.”

He glances up to him over by the window. Jaskier isn't moving a muscle.

“Then you follow me and after we almost get killed, you don’t run, as a sensible person would. You write a song. About me.”

“It’s a very good song,” Jaskier adds, sounding meek.

“It is. Good enough that people call me Master Wolf and nod at me when they see me in the streets. And you, you don’t just nod, you smile when you see me, you talk to me like you missed me, you-” His voice breaks.

“I don’t understand you. You’re not like- I understand Yen, you know? She wants to fuck me, she wants to flirt with me, sometimes she wants to sleep in my arms. Then we fight and don’t talk to each other for months. And then we fuck again. It’s simple.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, then. Do you want me to sing at your wedding? Is that why you’re here?” Jaskier asks, voice dripping with acid.

Geralt groans and slaps his hands over his face.

“But that’s just it! I’m not! I’m not happy! I’m horny, I’m angry, I’m sad, I want to crawl into her ribcage and live there, but I’m not fucking happy!” He’s yelling, why is he yelling? “I can count on one hand the times I’ve been happy in my miserable fucking life and four out of five times it was because of _you!_ ”

Across the room Jaskier is eerily still, holding his breath.

“And that scares me. I’m scared to death of how much I want this. Want you. You fucking terrify me, Jaskier, I don’t _understand_ you.” He is breathing like he’s been fighting for his life, his heartbeat faster than it has been fighting some monsters. “So I did what they told us to do with things that scare and confuse us. I kicked it as hard as I could and ran away.” 

He’s reeling. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think half of the things he just blurted out. 

He startles when Jaskier finally steps away from the window. He sets the lute down on the ridiculously huge bed and drapes himself over an armchair opposite of Geralt. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy.

“I’m so fucking angry with you. I’m- I was head over heels for you. And don’t tell me you didn’t know. You’re not _that_ dense.” Jaskier says.

“I knew.”

“And you still, still-”

“I did. I’m sorry.”

Geralt can smell the salt of the tears Jaskier is trying to blink away.

“Are you, really? You’re the king of monosyllabic answers. You can convey a thousand meanings with a grunt if you wish. And here you are, talking and talking and talking and saying not much at all.”

Jaskier sniffs and roughly rubs over his eyes with his right sleeve.

“If this is serious to you, I’ll need you to actually, for once in your life, get to the fucking point and say out loud what you-”

(Anything. Geralt would do anything.)

“I love you.” Suddenly this isn’t hard at all.

“I love you, forgive me. Please, don’t cry.” 

Jaskier heaves a sob, that sounds like it’s been lodged in his chest for just around six months. And then another. And another.

“Please, Jaskier; Don’t cry, love-”

“Fucking come here already, you arse!” Jaskier shouts and Geralt closes the distance as fast as he can, shuffling over to kneel between his legs. He cradles Jaskier’s face in his hands, wiping his thumb over his cheeks and Jaskier is clutching the front of his shirt, pulling him in closer still.

“Don’t cry, Jaskier, don’t cry.” 

Jaskier is weeping and Geralt presses his mouth to his brow, to his cheek, to Jaskier’s mouth and he’s kissing Geralt back and he can taste the salt now and he can taste _Jaskier._

They break apart. Jaskier looks wrecked, eyes red and puffy, his hair a mess and finally he laughs wetly and smiles at Geralt and unmakes him utterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toss a comment to your writer~


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